Follow a bird within its shadow, within the carry of its cry, within the angle of its kill. Only something that has no history can be defined.

The kite is far above me. Unmistakable shape upon the eye. Deeply forked, the black tail. Inside what follows, within the feeling of along the river, the kite might go from flesh to fruit. From frog, from nestling, to fig, or paw-paw.

Kee-kle-klee. Unmistakable shape upon the eye. Deeply forked, the black tail. Or, to the closer look, blue-black with, in good light, the under-worldly reign of purple iridescence.

When I shake with purpose, I have no idea. Spring could bea set of days. Or a strand of being the wind knowshow to play. This could be immature forever. Greenish in its iridescence, a rufous bloom to its upper breast not to fade where things fade in the sea.

Why I shake with purpose, I have no idea. Why I keep such keys. A continuous fumble for doors, a sound for the hallwayeloquent as go.